The Dull Days
by HowAboutThisForAName
Summary: You reflect on what your life has become, and anything else that entertains your head. M for morbid themes.


It got dull on the range.

Sitting here, bum leg, bum arm, bad eyes and three missing fingers, you'd be glad that it was on the bad hand, rather than sad it happened at all, when something like this happened in post apocalyptia, it wasn't so much a traumatic experience as it was a bad day, same reason for all these injuries.

The chair was comfortable, the misses has at least made sure of that, least she could do, protecting her store with this old hunting rifle, glad it at least has a scope, way back when it was wanting a suppressor, but it's not particularly a stealthy job any more, firing at rad roaches and the odd raider or two.

Today seems particularly bad, the nuclear wind has been driving through the south, or so the radio says, and that's forcing people and raiders north, hoping to be shielded, maybe score a slave or stash along the way in the latter. Doesn't bother really, misses said to shoot anyone that looked dangerous, you just shoot them all.

Can't be called good, but not really bad either, just doing your job to the best of your ability, revenge is the last thing on your mind, especially since a bullet went through it. But a run in with three factions on either side isn't particularly helpful, and you just hope they don't realise it's you shooting these people, lest they send another hit squad that permanently stationed you here to begin with.

Occasionally you use the stockpile of other weapons amassed, the dead not needing protecting and the living more than willing to take it, it's how you got this armour, it's why you can see at night and disintegrate things, depending on your mood anyway.

Nothing to do for the last few hours, last group looked like a caravan, so you let them get close, was actually some clever raiders, you killed them all with the help of the shop keep, bastard rolling out with a shotgun designed for the groups these ass holes were imitating, don't bother you much, nothing seems to these days.

Emptying you ashtray, the pile of butts and dust is bigger than that of your weapon, it blocks a window nowadays, you keep saying you're gonna fix that, you're just expecting the nuclear winds to blow it away when they come, a rather practical hope considering the dreams of some people, restoring the old world or forging the new, some bullshit like that you don't really care about.

You're wary, but the white flag the next group flies is neutral, you could have blown their heads off, most of them anyway, some of the guards look dangerous, you were hoping they were, getting bored is all.

They do some trading with the misses, leave to continue north, your surprised they didn't shoot you in the back of the head, there's only three of you here, there were fourteen of them, could of strangled you, looks like the children could kill a super mutant, probably have.

In any event, they're gone, and you're left to watch down the path, hoping an ambush is constructed for when you go to grab the next idiot's rifle, too bad the raider's are likely to stupid to know what the word even means, and so when they do attack they just run forward firing blindly, they've hit every part of the store except where he's sitting, can't say he's immensely upset at that, just disappointed.

There was a missile launcher once, but it backfired and blew up half the opposing force, you laughed at that even as the remaining raiders made a last stand, which reminds you that the graveyard's getting big, upwards of seventy dug out holes, had to get some of the local boys to scavenge the remains and throw them in piece but bloodied piece.

You've lit another cigarette, blown smoke in the shop keep who demanded you pay rent, you say that the weapons you've grabbed from the last lot should suffice, using that fancy language of yours to berate him, and that intimidation tactic even with your poor circulation and cancerous heart is enough to make him back off.

You know you're dying, one of these days you'll fall asleep in your spot and never wake up, religious despite having broken every law of every religion you studied, you figure you'll go to some kind of hell, or perhaps purgatory if you're lucky, you don't mind, it's probably cooler there, you chuckle to yourself, before it turns into a hacking cough, worth noting that you spat blood that time, adding a nice streak of red to the ash pile beside you.

The misses brings you dinner, Brahmin steak, you thank her kindly, the one person you've ever shown manners too. Probably because you're crushing on her like some faggy little school boy, can't help but slap her on the ass as she walks away, makes her blush; makes you smile; makes the shop keep angry, but he holds his tongue.

You dig in, but not before shooting a random raider on the skyline, you see his head explode and can't help but imagine a slice of his flesh on this plate, you'd be disgusted with yourself if you were anybody else, but you just shrug in curiosity of the thought before digging in, swallowing in chunks and giving yourself indigestion, you're fine with that, makes you breath better because it feels like your oesophagus is blocked.

You don't realise until it's too late that that was actually your lung collapsing, the pain written off as food eaten to largely and placed at the back of your mind, you're always in pain, radiation, cancer, bullet wounds and anything else you can think of making your form weep, though you hide it under your cold, hard exterior, though you absently realise as your vision starts to blur that you actually look quite pathetic, wiry and thin and dull witted looking.

Closing your eyes and letting your head fall back, you shakily bring your hand up, having lit a third cigarette to sate your chain smoking habits. The drag is long, breathing it all in as your heart starts to pound in your ears and you rapidly go over your entire life's story in the middle of your mind, the outside world becoming a blur of colour as you rapidly forget what you're doing, and when the cigarette is going and you're lips and singing from the embers remaining, you're already dead, eyes closed and face oddly peaceful, for all the shit you've gone through.

The end to a dull day, was your last thought.


End file.
